


set you on dry land

by couldaughter



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 03, Pre-Relationship, Sad People Who Are Working On It, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 09:58:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16365746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: Foggy takes a nap, Karen makes a call, and Matt slips.





	set you on dry land

**Author's Note:**

> cws: some implied ableism herein, kids, and a little bit of nightmare imagery

There’s a lot of set-up involved in creating a law firm, as Foggy probably should’ve remembered from the first time around.

As it is, it’s only after four hours of shifting cardboard boxes and file folders around the former upstairs stockroom of Nelson’s Meats that he realises he’s kind of completely exhausted.

He slumps into his empty desk chair with a sigh, and enough force that he drifts in lazy circles for a couple full spins before he catches a hand on the desk and pulls himself to a stop.

It’s a new chair, bought with some of his fancy lawyer money, a chair that doesn’t even creak and has the word ‘ergonomic’ prominently displayed on the box it came in. He knows because he had to run the box down to the dumpster earlier this afternoon, when Matt and Karen were in and not twenty blocks away picking up “the best Thai you’ll ever have, Foggy, honest to God”.

It’s a special occasion, after all. It’s probably worth twenty-block Thai, even if they’ve been gone an hour and Foggy is feeling kind of weird about it.

“They’re fine,” he says out loud, and the echo is unnerving but it’s better than silence. “They’re definitely fine, and they’ll be back soon, and Fisk is in prison and not shooting up a Thai restaurant in Chelsea right this second, dumbass.”

He drums his fingers on the desk. The buzz of the strip lights above could get to him pretty soon, he thinks. How Matt deals with them is a goddamn mystery for the ages.

It’s raining outside as well, which doesn’t help things. Foggy folds his arms on the desk, rests his head down, and shuts his eyes. He’s had kind of a persistent headache for… well, more or less since Matt left, or possibly since he found Matt on the floor of his apartment and everything unravelled all at once.

He’s dreaming before he’s even fully asleep. At least, that’s what it feels like.

It feels like he’s awake again. That’s always been the worst part of these particular dreams.

He’s awake, and he’s staring out his old apartment window at the wide dark starless sky, and it’s not weird at all that there are no stars because Matt is dead on the floor behind him.

This dream has happened to Foggy maybe thirty times since Midland Circle, and every single time feels just the same.

There’s the body on the floor, of course. Sometimes the body is in Foggy’s apartment, and sometime it’s in Matt’s apartment laid out just the way Matt was the first time he found him, and sometimes it’s on the floor of their office on the day they opened Nelson and Murdock, and another Matt is stood beside him and he laughs.

Those are the worst ones. So at least he’s not having the _worst_ one. He might appreciate that if that was how sleep actually worked, and he could narrate his own dreams.

As it is he’s turning away from the window, that awful starless sky, and towards Matt, who is incredibly dead and incredibly on the floor of Foggy’s shithole old apartment. Impossibly, really. Foggy moved out of this place months before Midland.

It’s the kind of dream where you don’t move or speak, really, you just find yourself in new positions and places and you hear sounds that might be speech or might be your brain’s background static. So he’s on his knees beside Matt without knowing how he got there, and his hands are on Matt’s chest, and his heart’s not beating.

There’s blood on Foggy’s hands, because Matt is bleeding even though his heart isn’t beating. He’s bleeding a whole lot, actually. There’s a pool spreading faster than Foggy can track it, already lapping against the threshold of his bedroom doorway, and going no further.

The door opens.

Foggy gasps awake, heart racing. Matt and Karen are in the doorway, laden down with twenty-block Thai and looking stricken. Karen’s hair is up in a bun. Matt’s hands are clenched white-knuckle around his cane. They’re both rain-soaked. All that’s secondary to the point though, really.

“Foggy,” says Matt, who sounds a little bit like he’s choking. “Foggy, are you alright?” His hand is on Foggy’s shoulder, and Foggy stiffens before he can reply.

Matt takes his hand off Foggy’s shoulder, which honestly only makes the situation worse, because Foggy makes a _noise_ and grabs at it because his brain is just… not online yet.

“Fine,” he chokes, in a very not fine way. God, he hates dreaming.

He lets go of Matt’s hand after a long moment where he just looks at it stupidly, still not quite up to looking Matt in the eye. Matt’s hands are nice to hold, but Foggy’s not going to think about that any more than his brain absolutely insists he does. He’s been dealing with thoughts like that since Columbia, and he’s _very_ good at ignoring them.

He looks down at the desk, traces the factory produced groove lines with his fingers. “Fine, just fine, is that green chicken curry I smell? I could totally go for some green chicken right now.”

“Foggy,” Matt begins. He pauses for a second, apparently at a loss, and then huffs a sigh. “We’ll talk about this later.” He grips Foggy’s shoulder again, just for a moment.

“We got all your favourites, Foggy, don’t you worry,” says Karen, apparently happy to play along with his very bad lying. She sets a couple bags of steaming hot food down on the desk Foggy cleaned off earlier in a fit of responsibility. “I’ve got dibs on the crispy pork. Matt says he doesn’t mind but really he’ll throw down for the som tam that’s hiding somewhere inside this food mountain.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” says Foggy. He feels a little bit better, slightly less like he’s about to cry. “Hand me that box, Page, I’ve got a date with my spicy destiny.”

She passes over the carton and smiles at him, a depth of sympathy in there that he really doesn’t know what to do with. His chest aches.

Matt drags over the other desk chairs without being asked, holding one steady for Karen to drop into and then slumping down into his own with a slight grunt.

“Ribs still bothering you?” Foggy asks around a mouthful of bamboo shoots.

Matt narrows his eyes in his general direction. “Usually,” he says. “But it’s alright. Just the rain giving me grief.” He’s been surprisingly candid in the weeks since he decided to be Matt Murdock again - a decision that’s sticking so far, thank God. It’s been good for all of them, he thinks.

“Alright,” says Foggy. He scoots his chair a little closer to Matt’s and steals one of his armrests. “I’ll keep an eye on the forecast next time.”

Karen scoots over too, and takes Matt’s other armrest. Matt glares directly ahead, but Foggy can tell he’s fighting a smile.

“Teamwork,” he says sagely, a bite of chicken held in his chopsticks. “Makes the dream work.”

The food lasts them about half an hour before they all declare defeat.

“One day we will defeat this food mountain,” says Foggy, boxing up leftover crispy pork for Karen. “But it is not this day.”

“I’ll see you on Monday, boys,” Karen says, fond, and kisses them both on the cheek, one after the other. She leaves with a half full carton of crispy pork and all the leftover beer, because Matt and Foggy are easy for her.

“Now we can’t even get drunk,” Foggy muses, staring at the door. “I would really like to be drunk for this conversation.”

Matt sighs. His glasses are kind of skewed to one side, and his hair is fluffier than usual because of the way it dried after getting rained on. He’s wearing one of Foggy’s Columbia sweaters and he’s not got his shoes on.

Foggy should _not_ be attracted to him, or intimidated by him.

The intimidation, at least, is purely situational.

He gets back into his chair, because at least that way he can spin around a bit while he lets Matt know that he went a little bit crazy while he was… gone. Dead. Gone. Whatever.

Foggy looks down at his hands.

Matt scoots his chair across, knocks their feet together and whispers an apology. His spatial awareness is a little shakier now, after all the head trauma.

“You were scared, Fog,” says Matt, after a while. “I could hear you three blocks away, your heart was going so fast. Scared the hell out of Karen.”

Which means it scared the hell out of Matt, too, and he doesn’t want to say it in so many words, Foggy thinks. He gets it, he really does. It’s not like Matt’s been able to confide in that many people in his life.

“Sorry,” Foggy says. He bites at his thumbnail, mostly for something to occupy his mouth while he tries to come up with something to say beyond that. “Sorry,” he says again. It’s muffled by his thumb, obviously.

Matt takes Foggy’s wrist in his hand and pulls it gently away from his mouth. Foggy looks at Matt, who looks right back. He’s frowning, line forming on his forehead, and his eyes are wide and sad. They’re usually like that, to be fair. It’s kind of Matt’s deal.

“We all have bad dreams,” Matt says. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Which, coming from Matt: hilarious.

“Not like these,” says Foggy. He immediately regrets admitting there’s been more than one. “Or at least I super hope not, because they _really_ suck.”

Matt is still holding Foggy’s wrist. His hand is warm where it presses against Foggy’s skin; he can feel the thrum of Matt’s heartbeat not quite matching up with his own.

“I can imagine,” says Matt, dryly. “If you want to talk about it, I’m literally right here.”

Foggy rolls his eyes. “I noticed.” He swallows, throat clicking. “It’s just… not a great time, y’know. You were gone kind of a while. Brain comes up with all kinds of things to fill in the narrative gaps.”

“Oh,” says Matt. It sounds a little bit like he’s been punched, and damn does Foggy wish he wasn’t intimately aware of exactly what that _does_ sound like. “It - it was -”

“You were the starring role, yeah,” Foggy supplies, because he really doesn’t feel like listening to Matt trying really hard not to do his woe-is-me voice. “It’s not your fault, Matt. Just sort of the way things turned out.”

“It kind of is my fault,” says Matt. “But the important thing here is that it’s not yours either, Foggy.”

“Felt a bit like it at the time,” Foggy says. He fights the urge to tug his wrist out of Matt’s grip, bite his thumb again so he has something to focus on besides Matt’s increasingly sad gaze. He’s not making eye contact, for obvious reasons, but the sadness is clear anyway.

“Look,” he says eventually. He scrubs a hand through his hair, which is already messy enough from a day spent moving in. “I don’t _really_ want to talk about this. I just appreciate your newfound emotional honesty.”

Matt snorts. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he does, which should honestly be illegal. “I’m doing my best.”

Foggy sighs. “Honesty, okay. Here’s some honesty: me and Marci have a whole taxonomy for my dreams at this point.” Matt lets go of his wrist only long enough to take his hand instead. It’s kind of weird, but Matt’s always been weird. “Two confessions for the price of one! I am a bargain at half the price, my friend.”

“Right,” says Matt. “Are we talking Moys or Bloom, here?”

“Neither,” says Foggy. “We’ll make a comedian of you yet, Murdock.” He shifts in his seat, already sensing the Murdock Guilt Train speeding towards the station. “I like to call it Nelson’s Taxonomy of Murdock Vitality. Kind of has a ring to it, right?”

“Kinda,” Matt replies. He squeezes Foggy’s hand, just this side of too hard, and blinks a couple times. “I keep forgetting I was dead for all that time, for you. It was cruel.”

“Yeah, it was,” says Foggy. He doesn’t want to rehash everything when Matt is clearly keen on self-flagellating the whole time. “The point is, Matt, that you’re alive but my subconscious hasn’t quite caught up. Honestly, you being there when I woke up was probably the best possible outcome for this evening.” He thinks of Matt lying on the floor in his dream and feels his stomach turn.

“If it happens again,” says Matt, slowly. “If it happens again, Fog, and I’m not there - call me, alright? You know you can always call, now.”

Matt’s been very good at picking up his phone the past few weeks. It’s another thing Foggy’s grateful for but not totally convinced by.

“Thanks,” he says, because he should. “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.”

Matt squeezes his hand again, tilts his head. Foggy knows that Matt knows that Foggy is lying, but that’s beside the point.

“Want to crash at my apartment tonight?” Foggy asks. “We could watch SNL and get trashed.”

“Just like old times,” says Matt. They’d done that a lot in college. Foggy’s narration became the stuff of legend across the dorm, sophomore year.

Foggy grins. “Let’s go, partner. This place’ll still be here in the morning.”

“God willing,” says Matt. He grins back.

 

* * *

 

The call log on Karen’s phone stares at her accusingly.

She’s stood on the stoop of her apartment building, deeply craving a cigarette, thumb hovering above the number she calls maybe twice a year, tops. The sun is shining weakly, fighting a losing battle against the fall. Golden leaves are turning to muck all along the sidewalk.

Two calls in a month might actually kill dad from the shock of it.

She’s not sure how that would make her feel.

“Hi, Dad,” she rehearses. “I just wanted you to know that you’re a real piece of shit.”

That might not be fair, but it’s how she’s felt for god knows how long by now. “That’s fine though. Like father like daughter, right?”

Her thumb slips. She puts the phone to her ear, breathes her way through the dial tone and stops when dad picks up.

“Karen,” he says, carefully flat. “What’s happened?”

Because she only ever calls when something’s wrong. That’s not always been true, but now there’s always going to be that assumption.

The diner still hasn’t gone under. Karen wires money, sometimes, and sometimes dad doesn’t wire it straight back.

“Nothing much,” she says, just as carefully. “Got a new job.”

“That’s good,” dad replies. “Still sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

“Something like that,” she replies. “I’ve got my name on the door. Or I will, once the plaque gets here.”

It’s a nice one. She and Foggy picked it out, it’s got all their names in plain text and embossed in Braille at the bottom. It feels permanent in a way the last one never got to be.

She wants a cigarette so badly she can almost feel ashes burning her fingertips, smoke at the back of her throat.

“That’s real good, honey,” says dad. There’s a pause. “Look, I think maybe you should call less. I’m fine. There’s no need to check in.”

“Funny, dad,” says Karen. “And yeah, maybe I should. But not because you’re fine, because you’re not, and I’m not. Maybe I should call less because I’m putting a whole lot into what remains of this family and it seems like I’m not getting a whole lot out of it.”

“Don’t speak to me like that, Karen,” dad says. His voice is less careful now. “It’s not my fault things are the way they are.”

Karen sighs. “Yeah, maybe not. It’s not mine, either.”

“You sure about that, kid?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

She hangs up before dad can say anything more. She doesn’t really believe that yet, but she figures she might, someday, if she keeps at it.

It’s still early enough to grab breakfast on the way to the office, so that’s what Karen does.

The bagel gets eaten on the walk across Hell Kitchen, smoked salmon and cream cheese and really delicious, despite the emotions she’s eating it with, and she feels a little better by the time she reaches Nelson’s Meats, bag knocking against her hip with every step.

The stairs up to the second floor creak a little as she makes her way up, so it’s not just Matt that’s anticipating the jingle of her keys in the lock.

They keep the door locked outside of their posted hours, no matter how early all of them end up showing up. Karen’s not convinced Matt doesn’t occasionally spend the night here, after getting in from a patrol.

It makes her feel safer, anyway, which is kind of the whole point.

Matt’s on the phone and Foggy is stood at the tiny coffee station with the pot at a guilty angle in his hand.

“We’ve talked about this, Foggy,” says Karen as she drops her bag onto her chair. “Drinking straight out of the pot is for all-nighters, not all-mornings.”

“Don’t tell me how to live my life, Page,” says Foggy. He looks tired, dark circles and flyaway hair, but not unhappy. It’s a nice change, if not the platonic Foggy ideal.

Matt huffs a laugh. Karen thinks he’s probably calling Maggie, if only because there’s no one else they know that Matt likes to call on the landline. He looks fine, only a fading bruise on his temple left after a week long hiatus from his other job. Foggy had insisted.

“Say hi for me,” she says, passing by him to hang up her coat. They’ve organised the office a little more since moving in, still in the process of finding the best way to squash three desks and a couple filing cabinets into the limited space.

 _Sure,_ Matt mouths in her direction. “Karen says hi, by the way.” He turns back to his desk, his free hand running across his Braille reader. There’s an article up on the screen, probably research for the case they’re working on with the Kims down the block.

It’s all so domestic Karen thinks she might die of it. It’s nice.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out the photo she’s still thinking of smashing. Kevin smiles up at her, and she puts him on her desk, below the lamp, besides the novelty mug full of stationery. Foggy bought it for her last Christmas, and within a week the handle fell off.

“Nice picture,” says Foggy, on the way to his own desk and a looming stack of file folders. “That your family?”

“Some of it,” says Karen. She smiles.

 

* * *

 

Matt is fine.

“Really, Maggie,” he insists, because Maggie is looking at him as if he’s just told her he’s sprouted wings. “Everything’s good.”

“Sure thing, kid,” says Maggie. She takes a sip of her coffee, and sighs.

They’re in the rectory at St Agnes’, still a bit the worse for wear after the knock down drag out fight Matt definitely didn’t start there, and Father Lantom’s coffee machine is between them on the rickety table. He can’t see the damage, of course, but there’s a breeze coming through the plywood covering broken stained glass, and it’s sending debris rattling across the floor.

Matt runs a hand through his hair. He’s wearing a respectable outfit, because it seems to make Maggie happy and he figures he should make an effort for her.

“There’s nothing wrong with feeling bad,” she says. “God knows I know that, and so should you. I’d hoped I got that through your thick skull when you were here.”

“There were extenuating circumstances,” replies Matt, trying not to think about Stick. “And like I said, I’m _fine_.”

So what if he hasn’t slept well in longer than he can remember. It’s to be expected with the number of cracked ribs he’s dealing with at any one time. So what if he sometimes zones out at his desk and Foggy has to pull him out to lunch or dinner before he comes back to reality.

He’s just as alright as he needs to be.

He finishes his coffee and hugs Maggie and leaves before he can think about hugging Maggie.

She exhaled when he did it, a surprised puff of air. She’s so much smaller than he is. He’ll never remember having a mom that was bigger than him.

The walk from St Agnes’ to the office isn’t too bad, usually, but it’s an icy morning in late October and Matt doesn’t want to take any chances.

He’s about halfway back, cane tapping carefully to check for any frozen patches of sidewalk, when someone grabs his elbow and tugs him sharply to the left.

He trips, obviously, ends up on hands and knees on the paving stones. He’d been focusing so much on the ground in front of him he’d forgotten to keep his senses open for anything else. Rookie mistake.

Gravel and leaves and god knows what else are digging into his knees.

A voice intrudes on his confusion. “Shit, dude, you alright?”

Matt sits back on his heels, brushes down his jacket. Hisses when the scrapes on his palms graze over the fabric. “Oh, just peachy,” he bites out. “Who grabbed me?”

Footsteps on the sidewalk. “That’d be me,” says someone else, apologetic to a fault. “You were coming up on a frosty patch.”

Matt grits his teeth, then sighs. “I’m just fine on my own, thanks,” he says. He gets to his feet, bends down to grab his cane, and rolls his shoulders. His knees are killing him, because joints are the most unfaithful part of the skeleton. His ribs ache, even a week after the fall that bruised them. “Good morning.”

He hears someone shouting after him, something to the tune of _you’re welcome, asshole_. He doesn’t turn around.

He makes it to the office in record time, after that. God, does he hate getting manhandled. It happens less now than it did when he was a kid, wandering Hell’s Kitchen in secondhand glasses, but it also grates far more now than it did then. 

The Nelson’s Meat sign buzzes its fluorescent signature, and Matt sighs in relief. His head feels light and airy.

The stairs creak as he walks up to the second floor.

Foggy tuts when Matt walks in, heart rate picking up a little. Karen’s not in, but the smell of her perfume is still hanging in the air. Not been gone long, then. “Woah, Matt, you alright?”

“Slipped over on the sidewalk,” he says. He smiles, because it actually is kind of funny. “For real this time.”

“Ouch,” says Foggy, sympathetic. His jacket rustles as he gets up. The office window is open and the blinds are up; Matt can feel sunlight on his hands. “I’ll get the first aid kit, you sit down and get ready for Doctor Foggy.”

“Doctor Foggy cannot possibly have a valid medical license,” says Matt, smiling faintly. He doesn't know if he's up to anything more enthusiastic.

“Doctor Foggy does what he wants,” says Foggy, muffled by the cabinet he’s rummaging through. “Ah, here it is.”

There are two first aid kits at the office; the standard one Foggy’s holding by the fabric strap, and the heavy duty one hidden beneath the floorboards.

Foggy kneels down in front of Matt’s chair, turns Matt’s hands palm up on his knees, and hisses in sympathy. “Ouch, man. How’d you slip? I thought your, uh, whole thing meant you could avoid all the pitfalls of us mortal men.” He pauses. “Oh, I just waved my hand around a bit. I know you can usually tell, but you’re looking kinda peaky.”

Matt hadn’t noticed, actually. He was a little distracted by the feeling of Foggy’s fingers soft against his palms.

“Some idiot grabbed me,” Matt says. “Caught me off guard.”

“Oh,” says Foggy. “Want me to rain the law down on their presumably very ugly head? I know you can’t tell how ugly they were, I’m just assuming based on their heinous actions.”

Matt shakes his head. “It’s fine. Probably couldn’t even get them with the ADA.”

“Probably not,” agrees Foggy. He dabs at Matt’s palm with an antiseptic wipe. Matt doesn’t flinch. “But it’s nice to imagine.”

They stay quiet while Foggy cleans up Matt’s hands, covers the left palm with a ridiculously sized band-aid and declare his magic worked.

“Not even a kiss better?” Matt asks, half-hoping.

“I just rolled my eyes,” says Foggy, fondly. He kisses Matt’s palm anyway, light and quick.

Matt tears up, unexpectedly, and his breath catches. “Sorry,” he says, at nothing and nobody. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are, Matt.” Foggy sounds kind of sad. “You always are, right?”

“A-OK,” says Matt. He scrubs at his eyes with the bandaged hand, not quite incoherent enough to try it with an open wound. “Just feeling a little off today.”

Foggy sighs. The stairs creak, keys jingle, and Karen comes in the door.

“Good morning,” she says. A bag from Katz’s dangles from her wrist. “I brought brunch, so, whatever you two are up to can wait ‘til after that, alright?”

“Thanks, Karen,” says Matt. She pushes a wrapped bagel into his hands - breakfast style, he can smell the sausage patty - and throws Foggy something Matt can’t make out. “Much appreciated.”

“No problem,” says Karen. She bites into her own bagel - onions and toasted bagel crunching together - and drops onto the couch that’s usually reserved for prospective clients. It’s the nicest piece of furniture in the place, for all that it’s the oldest.

They eat in silence for a while. Foggy is sat on the floor by Matt’s chair, still, which Matt can’t quite figure out.

Matt’s barely thrown his wrapper in the trash before Karen’s tapping him on the shoulder. “Couch?”

“Sure,” says Matt, and lets her pull him over. He’s got the layout of the office down cold, now, but Karen did see him stub his toe on the coffee table last week. And he's maybe feeling a little wobbly, still.

He settles into the couch and listens as Karen asks Foggy, quietly, what’s up. He shuts his eyes. He’s kind of tired.

“Hey, Matt,” says Karen, settling in beside him. Foggy perches on the coffee table, legs crossed at the knee. “I’m hearing you’re fine.”

“That’s right,” Matt says, eyes still closed. “Fine as can be. Nothing to worry about.”

“Crock of shit,” says Karen. Matt thinks he can hear a smile hidden somewhere in there. “It’s fine not to be fine, Matt. Hell, neither of us are.”

Foggy nods enthusiastically. “We are your support system Matt. The support system for not being fine at all, actually.”

Matt slumps a little further into the cushions. Objectively, he is aware that a lot of the things his brain does aren’t things a healthy brain does. Subjectively, he is aware that showing weakness will get him killed. Even if Foggy and Karen would _never_ -

“Thinking too loud, Matt,” says Foggy. “Don’t worry about it. We’re here whenever you wanna talk, alright?”

“Alright,” says Matt, after a pause that feels hours long.

Karen leans into his side on the couch, her hair falling loose around her shoulders.

Foggy squashes in on the other side. It's a two seat couch, but they make it work. 

Matt stretches out his senses, listens to his whole world wound up in two people. 

It's all he needs, just now.

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta-ed because i am, at heart, deeply impatient
> 
> this was intended to be explicitly romantic but then they just refused to KISS MOUTHS so enjoy this sort of pre-ot3 situation.
> 
> [this](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61BbbwpokyL._SY463_.jpg) is the mug foggy got karen.
> 
> anyway *crashes back into the vicinity of the matt/foggy/karen tag three years late with starbucks* man i missed these crazy kids. s3 was very good and i was very happy with it. i will accept no arguments, except about how much i need fixit fic where nadeem lives. #JusticeForNadeem.
> 
> title from never quite free by the mountain goats because that song is apparently fucking embedded in my psyche at this point. it's fine because it is, after all, a great song.
> 
> find me on twitter and tumblr @dotsayers, screaming about any number of diverse subjects on an almost daily basis


End file.
